


The Christmas Cracker

by jamgrl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: An Ineffable Holiday (Good Omens), Canon Compliant, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Music, Fluff and Angst, Hot Cocoa, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Prompt: Music, Quite Extraordinary Amounts of Alcohol (Good Omens), Winter, a tiny bit of kissing, lots of banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21838126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamgrl/pseuds/jamgrl
Summary: Crowley was happy to have some time off from nannying 5-year-old Warlock to enjoy the holiday season.  Though they hadn't spent the holidays together before, Crowley knew an afternoon with Aziraphale would surely be well spent. He managed to wile his way into said afternoon by convincing his friend to listen to some Christmas radio, which would have the benefit of being both hilarious and proving his demonic prowess. What he didn't account for was the mixed up feelings that would bubble up from popping a simple Christmas cracker.OR Crowley is in denial about his feelings for Aziraphale and Christmas may just bring them too close to the surface.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 63
Collections: An Ineffable Holiday 2019, Aziraphale's Library Festive Fic Recs, Courts GO Re-Reads





	The Christmas Cracker

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the [Ineffable Holiday 2019](https://soft-angel-aziraphale.tumblr.com/post/189412119679) prompt list, prompt for day 17: music.
> 
> A huge thanks and shout-out to [send-me-off-to-sea](https://send-me-off-to-sea.tumblr.com/) for serving as a beta- it was a huge help!

The escalator ride up from Hell was one of relief. Crowley had managed to bullshit his way through another report, in which he had once again vastly exaggerated the Warlock boy’s infernal tendencies. With the report complete, he could finally enjoy some much-needed time off. 

Playacting as a nanny, it turned out, required actual nannying. And five-year-old humans, as Crowley had discovered, could be quite exhausting. But, luckily, the Dowlings had given most of the staff several days off for the holidays. (Lucky for them- Crowley would have had the time off either way, but since they had come to the decision on their own, they got to avoid Crowley’s more diabolical methods of persuasion.) This report for Head Office had been the only thing left between him and the most wonderful time of the year.

Crowley really _did_ think of it as the most wonderful time of the year. Contrary to popular belief, demons were just as capable as anyone of enjoying the holidays. So long as they avoided the points that changed the day from just a day to a holi-one. And when you got down to it, the main holiday that was coming up, the one people might have expected a demon to have an aversion to, on account of ‘Christ’ being in the name, didn’t have much holy about it after all. It wasn’t as if Crowley was planning to go to a midnight service or anything.

When Crowley reached the bland lobby that served as an entryway between his and Aziraphale’s respective offices, it was just as bland as ever. Except for Aziraphale’s scent– that smell of old paper and cologne and something else, too, ancient and new, like the mist at dawn, and, what was it? Crowley could never quite put a name to it... Well, whatever it was, it was _Aziraphale_ , it was very distinctive, and it was much stronger in the room than usual. As if he’d just been there. As if Crowley had missed him by mere minutes.

Maybe, Crowley thought, if he was fast enough, then he could catch him! It would be a good start to the season, spending some quality time with his angel. 

Not _his_ angel. 

Not his _angel_. 

His friend, that was all, his _friend_.

(Some might have called that thought a Freudian slip, but not Crowley. He had met Freud and had thought the fellow a right loon.)

Crowley shook off the intruding thoughts and ventured out of the lobby, onto the sidewalk, and into the brisk December air. The scent was all mixed up out there, intermingling with the hundreds of humans and the car exhaust and all the smells wafting out of restaurants and things. Crowley looked wildly about him, hoping he hadn’t missed the angel. 

There were lots of people in coats and scarves carrying shopping bags, people walking dogs or walking briskly with cell phones to their ears. People getting into cabs, cars honking. People stopping at food stands and the like. Aha! There he was, just down the sidewalk, at a newspaper stand a block or two away. 

_Of course_ he was at a newspaper stand. Only Aziraphale still read newspapers. He was probably single-handedly keeping the stand in business. Crowley might have considered getting him an iPad for Christmas, only, even if they _were_ in the habit of giving each other gifts, which they certainly _weren’t_ , Crowley figured Aziraphale wouldn’t have had any interest in an iPad. It was enough that his computer in the shop wasn’t one of the original ones that took up an entire room.

Aziraphale was walking away from the newspaper stand. Away from Crowley. 

_Shit,_ Crowley thought.

Crowley rushed to catch up, trying to weave past the business people and the dogs and the shoppers as quickly as he could. When he’d made it three blocks, he saw that Aziraphale had stopped at a bus stop. 

Still a few meters away, Crowley leaned against a storefront to catch his breath. He didn’t want it to seem as though he had been running or anything. Just happening to pass by... Crowley could play it casual. He was _good_ at casual. Casual was his middle name.

Until he was in an appropriately casual state, though, he would stay back. Luckily, the London busses were terribly slow. And there was Aziraphale, just next to the bus stop post, patiently waiting, the newly acquired newspaper held closed in front of him. He was wearing a coat himself and a tattered tartan scarf. 

He looked completely ordinary, standing there. But, of course, Crowley knew there was nothing ordinary about him.

Feeling recovered from the near running, Crowley stood back up and smoothed his clothes. He tucked a few stray hairs behind his ears, checked that his little half bun was still in place, and strolled on over. He circled Aziraphale to stand at his left, where the bus stop post was. He _casually_ leaned against the bus stop post. (Casual was his middle name.)

“Fancy seeing you here,” he drawled.

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley as if he had just noticed him there. As if he hadn’t sensed him. Maybe he hadn’t– Crowley couldn’t quite remember what it was like to be an angel, what his senses had been like back then. Aziraphale gave a small, guarded smile. “What are you up to, then?” he asked.

“Oh, just come up from Head Office.”

“Ah, me as well,” Aziraphale said. Crowley made his best mildly surprised but unmoved face. “Well, come _down_ , rather. But– what has you all the way over here? The lobby is several blocks away, I think.”

“Fancied a stroll, fresh air and all that.”

“No Bentley today?”

“Nah,” Crowley said. It was a lie; his Bentley was still over near the office. He hoped Aziraphale hadn’t seen it– it did stick out like a sore thumb. “Such a nice day and all.”

Aziraphale looked him up and down and made a face, furrowing his brows. 

“Where is your coat?” he chastised.

Crowley recoiled a bit. “Coat? I’m a demon. I don’t need a coat,” he said, rather petulantly, like a child talking back to a parent.

“Of course you need a coat!” Aziraphale exclaimed, alarmed. “You’ll catch a frightful chill!”

“A ‘frightful ch–’. I’m fine, perfectly capable of–” Aziraphale was unwinding his own scarf. “No, no, no! No scarf! I’m _fine_.”

Aziraphale stopped. “Suit yourself,” he said, turning forward again to wait for the bus.

Dammit.

Crowley had to think of something else to say, keep Aziraphale talking, or else he would wonder why he was still standing there.

“Any- uh- any news from upstairs that I should know about?”

Aziraphale crinkled his face, tilting his head up thoughtfully. 

He looked sort of adorable. 

No. He didn’t look adorable, demons didn’t find people adorable.

“Not that I can think of at the mo–” the loud screeching sound of a bus arriving cut him short. “Oh,” he said. “I’m afraid this is me.”

Crowley stood up straight. “I happen to be going that direction, actually,” he came up with quickly.

“Oh! How fortuitous!”

Aziraphale gave Crowley a small smile before he boarded the bus, nodding kindly at the driver. Crowley followed closely behind. Aziraphale took a seat and Crowley took one behind him, as he always did when they rode a bus together. Aziraphale pulled out his absolutely ridiculous reading glasses and opened the newspaper. So, they were done talking for the moment. That was alright. They had a whole bus ride. Crowley knew Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to resist striking up conversation again. Crowley settled comfortably in his seat, letting his legs stretch out.

Crowley had been looking out the window counting holiday sale signs when Aziraphale finally said something. 

“Look, my dear!” he said, drawing Crowley’s attention away from the 7th 60% off sign he’d seen outside some department store. He was pointing to something in the newspaper. Crowley leaned forward, draping his arms over the seat next to the angel, to look at what he was pointing to. It was an ad for a live performance of ‘A Christmas Carol’.

“Wouldn’t that be just the thing to bring young Warlock to!” Aziraphale exclaimed. Crowley made a face. He doubted ‘A Christmas Carol’ was something a five-year-old would enjoy. Even _he_ found it dull, and he was ancient.

“Maybe if it was the Muppets version–”

Aziraphale let out an excited gasp, eyes widening in that way that meant he wanted to do something ridiculous. “Now _there’s_ an idea!”

“No, Angel, I’m not giving up any of my vacation to spend extra time with that little terror.”

“Oh, hush! I know you like the boy.”

“You’re right, I do. That was a compliment.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes emphatically. He followed that up with making a sad sort of pouty face, gazing at the ad.

“It is a pity, really. Missing Christmas with him. Oh, I’d just love to see his delighted little face on Christmas morning.”

“I’m fine without it.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale closed the newspaper abruptly and turned to Crowley with a look of concern and embarrassment, which Crowley found very confusing. “I’m sorry, my dear fellow! I hope that wasn’t insensitive! Talking about Christmas, I mean.”

“Insensitive? Why would it be insensitive?”

“Well, because of, well your _situation_ ,”– he stage-whispered the word ‘situation’– “as it were.”

“Are you calling the fact that I’m a demon a ‘situation’?”

“Well, I wasn’t sure how to frame it–”

“I happen to quite enjoy Christmas, for your information.”

“ _Really_?” Aziraphale said, with a hint of disbelief.

“Sure! All those pagan traditions, the rampant consumerism, the controversy over the Starbucks cups.” Crowley flourished his hands for emphasis. “Some of my best work happens during the holiday season!”

Aziraphale tutted and reopened his newspaper with a firm shake, redirecting his attention to it. “Of course you would take a joyful time and sully it.”

“Sully it? What’s there to sully? If it’s the whole Jesus business you’re on about, it’s not as if December is even when the man was born, anyways! You know I liked the fellow. It’s your lot that decided to co-opt the winter solstice to convert people.”

“Well, that wasn’t _really_ my side’s doing. That was more of a human thing...”

“Well, anyways, Christmas, I think, is fair game, and I’m rather proud of what I have accomplished. Take 24-hour Christmas radio, for example!”

“You mean Christmas music?” Aziraphale asked, looking up from the paper. “But I rather like Christmas music. Gets one into the spirit of the season, I think.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I bet you like the old traditional stuff, like ‘Little Town of Bethlehem’ or whatever.”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact–”

“‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing’?”

“Well–”

“Bit self-important, don’t you think?” 

Aziraphale made an affronted sound. “ _Well,_ I _say_ –”

“‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’? Satan, that one’s boring as all get out. And don’t even get me started on ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’–”

“ _Crowley!_ ” Crowley stopped his tirade short. There was something about Aziraphale saying his name– made him feel all _fluttery_. No, that wasn’t right. Demons didn’t feel _fluttery_. “Do you have a _point_ , or is your intention merely to insult every Christmas song I know?” Aziraphale was all agitated and huffy. Just the way Crowley liked him. Probably wouldn’t have been wise of him to put too much time into considering _why that was_.

“My point is–” what was his point again? And then Crowley knew it– the ticket into Aziraphale’s afternoon. “My _point_ is, you simply must let me introduce you to modern Christmas radio. It would be rude of you not to, really, seeing as it’s one of my crowning achievements.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips thoughtfully and folded the newspaper, resting it on his lap and smoothing the pages. “I suppose I could–”

“No suppose about it. It’s an obligation, I think.”

“Then you’ll have to come with me to the shop,” he said, matter-of-factly, with a self-assured little nod.

Crowley smiled. _Still got it_ , he thought.

“That is, if you haven’t got anything else on–”

Crowley shrugged and leaned back into his chair, crossing his arms and looking out the window in what he thought was a ‘devil may care’ sort of way. “I can free up my schedule.”

If he could have seen Aziraphale’s face, he might have seen the way it positively lit up, as much as the angel tried to conceal it.

When Aziraphale held the bookshop door open for Crowley to enter, Crowley felt a certain lightness to his saunter. It came from a certain sense of pride at having wiled his way into what was sure to be a lengthy afternoon of debauchery and revelry. Crowley thought it was exactly how every afternoon should be spent.

He would have claimed it was the debauchery and revelry, specifically, that he cared about. But those things never held the right amount of joy while in the wrong company. And on this day, he was definitely in the right company. He was loathe to admit it, but this was company that he often missed desperately.

Sure, Crowley and Aziraphale had spent practically every day in close proximity since they had started working for the Dowlings, but they couldn’t spend any _real_ time together on the job. And they certainly couldn’t be themselves. Not fully, anyways.

The lightness was more than that, though. It was also the bookshop itself, being inside it again after quite some time.

The bookshop was as it always was, though perhaps even dustier than usual. With all the time the two of them were spending with the Dowlings, it had probably been neglected for a while. But they say distance makes the heart grow fonder, and that must have been true because strolling through the bookshop gave Crowley an overwhelming feeling of fondness. It wasn’t that he liked reading or cared particularly about all the ridiculous books Aziraphale collected. It was something about the space. It felt comfortable to be there; it felt _right_ in some inexplicable way. 

(If Crowley weren’t afraid of the word, he may have been able to realize that the feeling that overtook him in the bookshop was one of ‘home’. If he were even a little bit self-aware, he may have been able to recognize that the feeling of home the bookshop gave him had little to do with the books or the space and everything to do with the very entity that occupied the place. But to Crowley, the two things were almost inseparable. The shop was the very embodiment of Aziraphale, and that was precisely why, whether he knew it or not, he loved the place with his entire being. The fact of his love for the place wouldn’t quite become clear to him until he saw it in flames, some six years later. Quite a few things would become clear then.)

As if muscle memory were in control, Crowley found his way to the back room and his favorite spot on the lumpy old couch. Even though Crowley hadn’t been there for months, if not years, the couch still conformed perfectly to his body. It was _his_ spot. It always had been, and it always would be.

Aziraphale was somewhere behind Crowley, probably hanging up his coat and scarf, when he called out. “Would you like some cocoa? In the spirit of the season?” Cocoa wasn’t really what Crowley had had in mind. “I’ve got peppermint syrup, and it is quite delightful!” Yep, that sounded up the angel’s alley. When Crowley didn’t say anything, Aziraphale came around the couch in front of Crowley, straightening his shirt sleeves. “I’ve got Kahlua, as well,” he prompted. “And I happen to know it goes very well in cocoa. Or maybe peppermint schnapps?” Crowley grinned widely. The angel knew him well.

“You sold me, Angel. I’ll take the Kahlua.”

Aziraphale clapped his hands together and beamed like Crowley was Father Christmas himself and had come to give him his present early. “Lovely!” he said. “I’ll just be back in a jiffy!” He disappeared then into his little kitchenette and Crowley was left on the couch to consider how utterly ridiculous his angel was.

 _Shit._ Not that again. Satan, Crowley really needed to get a handle on himself.

When Aziraphale returned, he handed a warm mug to Crowley and settled himself into his armchair. Crowley watched as Aziraphale smelled his cocoa and did a happy wiggle before taking a sip. He let out a satisfied sigh. “It is so nice to be back in the bookshop,” he said.

“Yeah, it is,” Crowley responded, before he could stop himself.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley over his cocoa. “Hmm?” he said, eyebrows raised slightly.

“I just mean, y’know– not _here_ , per say, for me– it’s just– it’s nice. To be out of the Dowlings house and all.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m rather enjoying my time there. Aren’t you?”

“Well, sure, yeah, I lo– I mean Warlock is–” as a demon, he couldn’t very well say he _loved_ someone, even if it was the antichrist child. “Yeah, yeah, I’m enjoying it an’ all. But, you know, this, I mean, we _never_ get time _alone_.” The implication of what he was saying struck him as it was coming out of his mouth, too late for him to stop himself. He could feel himself reddening. “I mean, not that I– what I mean to say is–”

“Oh, I understand. It’s not often that we can speak openly about all that is happening and exchange notes meaningfully.”

“Right, yeah, see that’s exactly it,” Crowley said, relieved. He certainly didn’t want Aziraphale to get the wrong idea. 

“So, then. This crowning achievement you so wanted to share with me?” Aziraphale prompted, one eyebrow raised.

“What?” Crowley had honestly forgotten what he was talking about.

“The Christmas music, Crowley,” Aziraphale said.

“Oh! Right, yes, of course.” Crowley looked at Aziraphale’s cocoa mug. “Have you got alcohol in there?”

Aziraphale smiled a mischievous little smile, which made Crowley proud somehow. “Yes,” he said, conspiratorially, “Since you are having the Kahlua, I put the schnapps in mine.”

“Good,” Crowley said. “Drink up, you’re going to need it before you are exposed to this.”

Aziraphale chuckled and drank some more of his cocoa.

Crowley focused on drinking his own cocoa, feeling his chest fill with warmth as he drank the hot beverage and as the Kahlua started taking effect. 

When he had finished the mug and felt just tipsy enough to be ridiculous, he put the mug down on the table and stood on the couch. 

“Alright, Angel, are you ready?” he asked, dramatically throwing his arms out. 

“Well, go on then,” Aziraphale said, smiling, but not shifting from his spot in his chair.

Crowley started speaking like a ring man in a circus. “Aziraphale! Principality! Guardian of the Eastern Gate! May I present to you–” Crowley prepped, with a flourish and a snap of his fingers. Music started blaring out of Aziraphale’s old radio, which lived in the corner of the back room. Crowley listened to try to identify the song. Whatever it was was vaguely recognizable, with familiar “barump a bump bumps”, but also sounded, somehow, Jamaican? Crowley laughed a little, before declaring, “The greatest masterpiece of all time: The Little Drummer, but Reggae!”

Aziraphale was making a face like he’d just had a particularly sour lemon.

“No,” he said. “This can’t be real. This isn’t real, is it?”

“This, my friend,” Crowley said, shoving his hands in his trouser pockets and stepping down to the floor, “is very real. And there’s plenty more where that came from.”

“I can’t imagine anything worse than this!”

Crowley laughed to himself as he settled himself back down onto the couch. “Well, I say you have to listen to at least 10 songs to get the full effect.”

Aziraphale looked aghast.

“You’re right,” Crowley said. “We need more alcohol for this. Got any wine, Angel?” Crowley didn’t wait for an answer, springing up instead to cross the room and poke in the cabinet behind Aziraphale where he knew the angel kept his best vintages and his wine glasses. Popping a wine bottle with a small miracle, he poured himself and Aziraphale each a full glass of a nice, full-bodied red. 

Aziraphale held out a hand expectantly. When he received the glass from Crowley, he immediately began tipping it back.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

Crowley found a nice perch on an arm of the couch where he could get a good view of Aziraphale’s reactions to the songs.

The song changed and Crowley recognized the beginning of ‘Santa Baby’– Ah yes, a classic.

“Thank goodness that song is over,” Aziraphale said. “This one doesn’t sound too bad, actually,” he continued, bobbing his head along.

“Wait until you hear the lyrics.”

As whatever woman singing the particular rendition playing started up, Crowley watched Aziraphale’s face with deep amusement. It went from attentive to confused to shocked, his mouth falling agape.

“I don’t understand,” he began, becoming increasingly distressed. “Why is she speaking to Santa in this way? Is Santa a metaphor for something else? This is really very improper.”

It went on like that, Aziraphale being shocked by each next song as he discovered just what people listened to all day for the month of December year after year. He (correctly, in Crowley’s opinion), found ‘Do They Know It's Christmas’ to be offensive, ‘Must Be Santa’ to be an abomination to music, and “Wonderful Christmastime” to be not too terrible, actually.

It was an absolute riot, hearing Aziraphale’s feelings on the songs and getting progressively drunker as they went on.

At one point, two slightly different versions of the same song played one after the other, and Aziraphale looked like he was ready to throw something. “If I hear ‘so this is Christmas’ _one more time_ –”

“What, you’ll smite someone?”

“No, but I may write the station a strongly worded letter.”

“ _Well_. That is a tad harsh, isn’t it?”

Well more than 10 songs later, they had ended up on the floor leaning against the couch, Aziraphale drinking straight out of a wine bottle until the thing was empty.

“That last song wasn’t even a song!” Aziraphale said, flailing the empty wine bottle around. “It was just a–” he paused to hiccup. “A beat! With a string of winter related words!” Crowley was leaning against the couch base laughing. “I apologize for ever doubting you, my dear,” Aziraphale said very seriously, gazing intently at Crowley so that he had to stop laughing and stare right back. “You, Crowley, are spectacularly evil.”

“It’s all part of the job description”

“You,” Aziraphale said, looking at Crowley accusingly and jabbing a finger at his chest.

“Hey!” Crowley said, in response to the jab.

“Have spoiled Christmas,” he finished. “Now you need to unspoil it.”

“Unspoil it? How do I do that?”

“You’re clever. Think of _something._ ”

Crowley was having a very hard time thinking at all. “But, I’m. I’m drunk!” he protested.

“Yes, well, sober up, then!” Aziraphale demanded.

“You too, then!”

“Yes, alright, together.”

They both concentrated very hard and squeezed the alcohol out of their systems. 

The way Crowley felt once the alcohol was gone wasn’t quite what humans would feel in a hangover. It was more like the feeling of having chewed gum for too long– the flavor was gone, there was a slight headache from too much chewing, and there was a lingering taste of something stale and metallic. He smacked his mouth a bit, trying to get rid of that unpleasant taste. 

Aziraphale set the refilled wine bottle onto the coffee table in front of them. “Please turn off the music,” he said, sounding thoroughly worn out.

Crowley did as he asked with a lazy snap.

“So, unspoiling Christmas?”

“Yes”, Aziraphale confirmed.

“Right.” Crowley concentrated on coming up with an idea. His imagination was usually something he could depend on.

He looked around the room and the solution became apparent. 

He mustered up his power and used both his arms to pull a strong current from below, manifesting a Christmas tree, decorations and all, in the corner of the room. It looked just right, Crowley thought, admiring his work.

“Gifts?” Aziraphale said in surprise, looking at the beautifully wrapped packages with ribbons assorted under the tree.

“Nah, they’re empty, like the ones for displays.”

Aziraphale snapped his head around. “Crowley, is all this stolen?”

“No! I- I made it.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale said. “It’s very nice. Thank you, dear boy.”

“Yeah, well, it’s Christmas, isn’t it?”

“Just one thing missing,” Aziraphale said.

“Yeah? What’s that?”

Aziraphale lifted a palm to the sky and brought it down in a swift motion, a shiny red and gold Christmas cracker appearing in it. 

“Angel! Did you steal that?” Crowley knew the angel wasn’t in the habit of manifesting things quite like he was.

Aziraphale blushed. “Not as such.” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “I added money to the register!” Aziraphale defended. 

Crowley just laughed. 

“Well, are we going to pop it, then?” Crowley asked.

“In a moment. Let me put on some proper music, first.” Aziraphale handed the cracker to Crowley, then pushed himself off the floor, making his way to his record collection.

Crowley examined the cracker. It wasn’t anything special– just that standard tube with the cheap paper wrapping. Crowley shook it. There were definitely little trinkets inside.

Music started playing from Aziraphale’s gramophone.

Instead of returning to the floor, Aziraphale sat on the couch. Crowley lifted himself onto the couch to join him. 

“‘‘Auld Lang Syne’?” he asked.

“I thought it was appropriate for us and for the occasion,” Aziraphale said. “Old friends and all that.”

That filled Crowley with emotion for some reason. He tried to push it away. 

He held the cracker out to Aziraphale. On the same count, they pulled on either end and popped the thing, the contents spilling out. Aziraphale found and unfolded the paper crown, putting it on his head. Crowley found the little paper with jokes on it– they weren’t at all funny. The rest of the items were two chocolates, which Crowley would let Aziraphale have, a miniature nutcracker ornament, and a little silver ring. Crowley picked up the ring to consider it while Aziraphale looked at the ornament. The ring was a very simple flat band with candy canes and holly engraved all the way around. It wasn’t too bad, actually, for something in a Christmas cracker. 

Crowley switched items with Aziraphale, taking the ornament from him. Well, it wasn’t as if Crowley had a tree. 

“Put this on the tree, then,” Crowley said, holding the ornament out to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale took it gleefully and went to the tree, apparently delighted to place something on it. Aziraphale took about a century to decide the perfect place for the ornament, but he finally did and returned to the couch.

“Alright, then,” he said, after he was finished admiring the tree with its new little addition. “The ring will be for you, then,” he said, turning to face Crowley.

“No, you keep it, it’s your cracker,” Crowley insisted. 

“I got it for both of us. Give me your hand.”

Crowley did as he was told and Aziraphale took his hand gently with one hand, slipping the ring on his ring finger with the other.

Crowley felt heat filling his face.

It was completely absurd to feel anything about it at all. It was his right hand, first of all, and it was a cheap ring from a Christmas cracker, for Satan’s sake.

“I don’t really wear rings,” he said, though the ring was already in his finger and Aziraphale was still holding his hand to study it there.

Aziraphale let go of his hand. “Keep it, anyways,” he said. “As a memory.”

“Right. Um.” Crowley ran his hands over his thighs nervously. “I’d better go,” Crowley said, standing as if to leave.

“Already?” Aziraphale asked, gazing up at Crowley from the couch, looking crestfallen.

It was completely absurd, too, as Crowley had been there at least six hours, maybe longer.

“Yeah, you know, it’s getting late– high time for wiles and all.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. He said it like he had just found out his favorite restaurant was closing. Aziraphale stood. “Well, I’ll see you off then.”

When they made it to the door of the shop, Aziraphale offered a coat and Crowley refused. Coatless, he stepped out into the night, which was, in fairness, quite chilly.

“I suppose we won’t see each other until after the holidays?” Aziraphale asked from the door, holding it open wide.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll, um, see you at the Dowlings’,” Crowley said rather sheepishly, hands shoved in his trouser pockets. 

“Yes, alright. Have a good holiday, Crowley.”

“Thanks. You too,” Crowley said, turning away and beginning to walk off. 

“May it be merry and bright!” Aziraphale called from the door. Crowley rose a hand to acknowledge he heard but didn’t look back.

He didn’t feel okay until he had rounded a block and was sure he was out of Aziraphale’s field of vision. 

He took a moment to pause and panic. 

It was dangerous territory he had just been treading on. Perhaps the holidays were too much. Crowley had felt feelings stirring up that he didn’t want stirred up.

He vowed not to put himself in that situation again.

And he didn’t.

For the next six years, he kept a ten-foot pole between Aziraphale and himself when it came to Christmas. He never bothered to try to spend time with him during the holidays and Aziraphale never initiated anything. 

They socialized as they always did the rest of the year, it was just the holidays– Crowley felt they made him too vulnerable.

And so, they were back to square one, minding their own business as they had all the previous years since Christmas was invented. 

The first few years were painful. Because there was some expectation that maybe they should get together again, pop a Christmas cracker. But Crowley resisted and soon enough, it became par for the course to go their separate ways and Crowley didn’t think about it as much.

Six years later, some months after the apocalypse had been averted, Crowley found himself, however, in that very same couch spot ( _his_ spot) with the very same cocoa-Kahlua mixture, watching Aziraphale as he struggled to drag a cardboard box chock full of decorations across the back room. There was a large undecorated tree standing somewhat lopsided in a corner that had been cleared to make room for it.

“I don’t understand why you don’t just miracle it decorated,” Crowley commented, taking a sip of his cocoa. They’d already had this conversation. Crowley had lost the argument, which was how he had ended up tying the darn tree to his beloved Bentley, driving a fussy angel back to his shop with the tree barely hanging on, and then carrying the stupid thing inside by himself while the angel directed him. It was he who had had to screw it into the Christmas tree stand and then unscrew and screw again every time the angel wanted him to straighten it ‘just a bit more’. And the result of all that effort was a lopsided, uneven tree that looked, frankly, ridiculous.

“That wouldn’t be any _fun_ , Crowley.” Crowley thought Aziraphale had somehow learned the wrong definition for the word ‘fun’. “No. It’ll be the real way or not at all, I think,” Aziraphale said as he stood up from the box and pressed his hands to his lower back, regarding the tree. “Do you think—?”

“No, Angel, I’m not getting down there again,” Crowley said firmly, before Aziraphale could suggest it.

Aziraphale tilted his head. “Well. It will have to do, then.”

Crowley took the opportunity of having Aziraphale’s back turned to eye the contents to the cardboard box cagily. _There had better not be anything flammable in there_ , he thought.

“You aren’t putting any candles on that thing, are you?” Crowley asked.

“Oh! Dear me! It has to have been a _century_ since I’ve used real candles on the actual tree. Maybe on the windows, though–”

“No!” Crowley said, too quickly. “I mean–” he said, recovering slightly. “Probably best not to use any candles at all. Bookshop. Open flames. Not the best mix, remember?”

“Ah, yes. Quite right, my darling.” _Darling._ That one he was still getting used to.

Aziraphale turned his focus to the box again, reaching in in an attempt to fish out a tangled mess of electric lights. Crowley watched from his comfortable position as Aziraphale tugged to no avail, becoming increasingly frustrated. “Are you going to help me, dear?” he asked.

“You said no miracles.”

“Yes, but you could help me with tugging these lights out of here–”

“I need a break from all that you put me through with the bloody tree.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Fine.”

“Not so fun, after all, is it?” Crowley teased.

“It _will_ be fun, thank you very much,” he said, standing again and wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. “We just need a little spirit, is all.” He walked over to the old-fashioned radio set and started messing with the dials. Crowley coughed loudly to cover the sound of his snap. He was only loosening the lights a little. And making them unbreakable– no reason to take any chances, after all.

When Aziraphale settled on a station, Crowley looked at him, surprised. What he heard was unmistakably Mariah Carey. _Make my wish come tru-ue_ , she was belting. _Baby, all I want for Christ-maaas_...

“What’s this?” Crowley asked, as if he didn’t know exactly what it was. 

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, apparently amused by Crowley’s puzzlement. “What? It’s Christmas, isn’t it?”

“Modern Christmas music?”

“It’s your, how did you put it, ‘crowning achievement’, was it?”

Crowley mumbled something that he supposed amounted to assent.

“You know, I always liked that about you,” Aziraphale said.

“What?” Crowley asked.

“Well,” Aziraphale started, clasping his hands in front of himself. “That your proudest demonic wiles were always so innocuous.”

Crowley sat up straight at that. “ _Innocuous?_ ” he responded, incredulous. “That music drives people mad! Promotes all kinds of low-grade evil! All over the world, too!”

“Mmm,” Aziraphale responded, cheekily. “Yes, you’re right, how silly of me. Quite evil of you.”

Crowley wanted to cross his arms in annoyance, but his mug was still half full, so he settled on merely looking put out. 

Aziraphale crossed the room to sit next to Crowley. He gently pried the mug from Crowley’s hands and placed it on the coffee table, which was just unfair.

“Anywho, I’ve grown rather fond of this horrid music.”

“Hey! You can call most of this music horrid, but don’t insult Mariah Carey!”

Aziraphale chuckled. “Apologies, my dear.”

“What’s made you so fond, all of the sudden? I recall you making quite the faces when I introduced you to it.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it reminds me of someone very special.”

“Who? Your barber?”

Aziraphale playfully swatted Crowley’s shoulder. “Oh stop it, you. You know exactly who I mean.”

Crowley smiled. He couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t dewy eyed or anything– that would be undemonic– but he did have a sort of warm fuzzy feeling, one that was specifically reserved for his angel. He really _was_ his angel, now. _His_. _Angel_.

“May I?” Aziraphale asked, indicating Crowley’s sunglasses. Crowley nodded and Aziraphale gently removed them, folding them and setting them gingerly on the table next to the mug.

When he sat back up, facing Crowley, he took Crowley’s hands into his own. Aziraphale’s hands were cold compared to the hot mug Crowley had been holding, but it still felt nice. (Was it okay to think things felt nice, now, with Heaven and Hell out of the picture?)

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. “For all that you did for the tree.” Crowley felt himself blushing and turned his face away. He mumbled something to the effect of “it was nothing” or “no big deal” or “whatever”. Maybe he mumbled all those things. He was a tad too flustered to be sure.

The song changed to ‘Santa Baby’ and Crowley forgot about his embarrassment long enough to let out a dramatic groan. “Ugh. Not this song. It’s horrendous!”

Aziraphale started laughing, really belly laughing. “Do you have anyone to blame but yourself, my dear?”

Crowley was, frankly, offended by the accusation. “I don’t _write_ the songs! Just give the humans a little push. Make them feel like what they really need is a Christmas single. I don’t have any influence over the content or style.” All the while, as Crowley was defending himself, Aziraphale was falling back into the couch in laughter, having had to let go of Crowley’s hands to wrap his arms around himself. “If there is anyone to blame, it is whatever human wrote this song, and all the humans thereafter who feel the need to cover it!” Crowley continued, animatedly.

“But, my dear!” Aziraphale exclaimed, trying in vain to hold back tears as he lifted his head to meet eyes with Crowley. _“You’ve_ tempted them to record something!” 

Crowley couldn’t think of a defense for that. He’d never thought about it that way. 

Aziraphale laughter died down and he wiped his eyes, recovering, though, when he looked at Crowley, his eyes were still filled with mirth. “Crowley, dear–” he said. “Has it ever occurred to you that you tend to entrap yourself in your own wiles?”

“No and I resent that statement.”

Aziraphale smiled widely and leaned in for a kiss, but Crowley turned his face away.

“I’m not kissing you. I’m angry.”

“ _Crowley!_ ” Aziraphale pouted. Aziraphale chased his face as Crowley dodged. Aziraphale huffed. “Fine. You are splendidly wicked and exceedingly clever. Is that better?”

Crowley considered it. “A little.”

“Oh, _good_. Now, please kiss me, dear,” Aziraphale insisted.

_...Santa honey, one thing I really do need, the deed, To a platinum mine…_

“Not with this song playing, it ruins the whole mood.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, doing a poor job of hiding the smile he was attempting to stop from forming. He waved his hand and the song abruptly switched mid-lyric to ‘Oh, the weather outside is frightful!’

“What did you do?? Did you do something to the radio host??”

“What? No! I just changed the track!”

“Oh.”

“Is this better?” Aziraphale implored.

“S’pose...”

“You are truly incorrigible; do you know that?”

Crowley smiled. “Yeah.” He leaned towards Aziraphale then, in welcome, and Aziraphale closed the distance. They kissed and kissed, and Crowley forgot about being angry. 

It wasn’t until later that night, when they actually got around to decorating the tree, that Crowley saw it and all of that stuff that he had locked away six years previously came rushing to the surface. 

It was the little nutcracker ornament, right there, in the box of decorations. Crowley picked it up to examine it. It had a year written on it, the year they spent that afternoon together.

Crowley thought about that year. He thought about all the Christmases since, wasted and completely melancholy after having known what it could be with a certain angel. All of the repression and all of the stirred-up feelings. All of that pain from five Christmases spent alone, knowing truly what it was to be alone. He thought about the ring he had kept in a box by his bedside for six years.

He thought about Aziraphale insisting he keep the ring. He thought about Aziraphale keeping this ornament, sitting down to write the year on it as to keep from forgetting. To have as a keepsake. He thought about ‘Auld Lang Syne.’

He had been a fool.

He had been a fool for thousands of years.

He didn’t have to be a fool anymore.

“Aziraphale?” 

The angel paused whatever he was doing with the tree tinsel, turning from the tree to look at Crowley expectantly. “Yes, dear?”

“Happy Christmas,” he said.

Aziraphale gave that heart melting smile that meant he was filled to the brim with love. “Happy Christmas, my darling,” he said.

Crowley, he could finally admit, was filled to the brim with love, too.

And so, two old friends spent their first complete holiday season together.

And that holiday season was merry and bright.

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot,_

_And never brought to mind?_

_Should auld acquaintance be forgot,_

_And auld lang syne._

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, Crowley POV! Aziraphale is usually my go-to, so this was very fun. I love a head over heals pining Crowley, _but_ one thing David Tennant said in an interview was that "Crowley loves Aziraphale. He hates that he loves him, but he loves him," so I thought it would be fun to let that idea inform my Crowley portrayal.
> 
> This fic was mostly inspired by my home Christmas radio station. Though, it is possible that my obsession with [this particular fan art](https://aiwa-sensei.tumblr.com/post/189589808520/all-i-want-for-christmas-is-you-patreon) gave me fuel to keep going.
> 
> Feel free to chat with me on tumblr! [jamgrlsblog](https://jamgrlsblog.tumblr.com/)


End file.
